


le monde attendra

by apolliades



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Desperation, Drug Use, Enjolras-centric, French Language, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, One-Sided Attraction, Revolution, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:52:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: Enjolras does what he must to keep going.





	1. french dialogue

**Author's Note:**

> both chapters are the same - chapter 1 is in english with french dialogue, chapter 2 is entirely in english.

Drip still burning at the back of his throat, Enjolras takes his place at the head of the room. Casts an eye over his comrades assembled. Grantaire in his corner sits head bowed, subdued more than usual, maybe still feeling shamed; Enjolras turfed him out last time for being too far gone, disruptive. Hypocrisy at its finest, since he can’t get through a meeting sober either, lately, but with twenty two hours behind him and another eight at least to get through what else is he supposed to do — there isn’t time to stop yet. He’ll make up for it, later, he’s set aside a few hours to crash and sleep just — not yet. There’s this evening’s meeting, first, and the rest of an assignment that needs turning in by midnight if he wants to pass this unit — and he does, needs to. Can’t let his degree fall to the wayside just because he’s trying to save the world.

The social and political mobility the qualification will afford him will be invaluable.

He looks down at the agenda gripped a little too tight in both hands. The words blur with his tremors — the most irritating side effect.

\- Votre attention…

His voice doesn’t pass above whisper. From the corner Grantaire raises his head, slowly. Nobody else has heard him. For crying out loud, get a grip. Enjolras clears his throat. The room quiets. He puts together a smile. This time, his voice rings strong.

\- Votre attention, s’il vous plait, on va commencer.

On his way out Grantaire’s thin hand catches his wrist as he passes.

\- Sois prudent avec ce truc, he murmurs too close to Enjolras’ ear. His voice feels too loud, surely someone else must hear. Nobody is looking. His fingers brush the collar of Enjolras’ shirt; it’s too close, he wants to pull away. He must be imagining the flecks of white that come away on Grantaire’s thumb. Lack of sleep plays tricks on the eye like that.

\- Enjolras, tu viens?

\- Ouais. He pulls his wrist away. Grantaire doesn’t resist. His grip was already slack.  
  
Waking from a coma-like-sleep to an alarm at half six, his skull feels like it’s closing in on his brain. A tutorial this morning and then that panel on radical socialism, plenty of time to redraft the _Activism and Wellbeing_ pamphlet in between, too much of the recommended reading is outdated by now. He realises the sachet of amphetamine is in his hands without intending for it to be there. Puts it away again, back of the drawer. No need this morning. Take a breath. Grantaire’s smoker’s rasp in his ear. Sois tranquille.

Enjolras reads the headlines on the métro and adds another brick to the dam that keeps back despair from flooding his chest. Each day the water rises a little more and he must build it a little higher.

Feuilly smacks a broadsheet down on the table; anger rolls off him like heat.

\- Regardez. Pouvez-vous le croire?  
  
A disaster in a faraway corner of the world, people suffering unheard of and alone. Outrage from the others. From him too, only it comes slower than usual. Plans fall into place for a fundraiser, an awareness campaign. He hears his own voice from the back seat inside his head. Searches for that same fire he felt from Feuilly within himself. It must be there somewhere. He knows it hasn’t gone out. Needs a little kindling, that’s all.

Bad people win more power. Mourning weighs heavy in the close walls of the Musain. The meeting drags. He can tell that no one believes his smiles, attempts at encouragement. It’s important not to lose faith. It’s important not to let morale get low. We must look forward. A setback, that’s all. These things happen. Mustn’t let the bastards grind you down. That’s how they get you.

Grantaire is beside him on the walk home. When he appeared Enjolras can’t be sure. He doesn’t ask.

\- Mais tu croyais pas que nous gagnerions, vraiment. Pas vraiment.   


His voice grinds out like grit between his teeth.  
  
\- Si. J’espérais.  
  
\- Vraiment? Moi, je l’ai croyais pas.

There’s the spark. Anger, though not when he wants it, not when he needs it more, but he’ll hold on anyway. 

\- Pourquoi tu viens alors? Pourquoi t’es ici? Juste pour me déranger? Tu ne crois à rien!  
  
Grantaire looks at him for a long time before he turns and walks away.

Exams come and go; summer now, there are marches to organise, rallies. They never seem to end and yet nothing seems to change — or something does, but some other horror rears its head in its place. There are splinters in his fingers from hoisting protest signs. Mud darkens the edges of the Tricolore pinned to his wall. Sweat sticks his curls to his throat. Enjolras falls asleep on the métro but never misses his stop.

Les Amis occupy a government building in defiance of a proposed bill that can’t be allowed to pass — Enjolras knows the reasons why whenever he’s explaining them to someone else but they seem to leave his head whenever he isn’t. Grantaire takes a hip flask from inside his jacket and swigs from it blithely as he listens on the fringes of a conversation between Marius and Combeferre. Enjolras opens his mouth to tell him this isn’t the place, but there’s still a hint of acridity under his tongue. He stays quiet.

A few weeks later they watch the news in Courfeyrac’s apartment, sharing soup and bread.

\- L’extrême droite, murmurs Prouvaire, Cette phrase est devenue trop familière. J’ai jamais pensé qu’il viendrait un jour où ce ne serait plus tabou à dire.  
  
The world get worse. The days begin to blur.  
  
He takes his place at the head of the room. He speaks; he defends; he argues. He turns in essays but can’t remember which subjects he’s taking. He speaks but can’t recall, by the next breath, what he said. The world gets worse. They buy burner phones, just in case. Caught up in a protest that became a riot he takes a blow to the back of the head and doesn’t feel it till he wakes up on the floor of his apartment.

At meetings Grantaire pipes up now and then from the table in the corner and Enjolras can tell he’s trying to press his buttons, get a rise out of him but he barely hears it. There are more important things to worry about now than a wine-stained cynic with nowhere else to be. He hasn’t the time to waste. When holes wear through the dam in his chest he stoppers them with his fingers.

He takes his place at the top of the room. Are the walls closing in or is that just his head. Something dark lands loudly on the back of his hand.

\- Enjolras, tu saignes. 

\- Ça ne fait rien.  
  
The words melt through the page. His hands are soaked in ink. Ink? Something dark, anyway. His name again, loud, afraid.

The ground rushes up to meet him. A pair of arms interrupt; pressure on his face, a chair beneath him. Joly’s bright, anxious eyes appear.

\- Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas? Qu’est-ce que tu as?  
  
\- Rien, tout va bien. His own voice sounds like someone else’s. J’ai un peu de mal à la tête, c’est tout. His mouth stretches into a smile. Merci, Joly, mais t’inquiète pas, je— j’ai besoin de l’eau. C’est tout.  
  
Even to himself he sounds like a liar. Everyone must see it. So he’s a liar now?

Joly wants him to go to A&E he resists, takes his hand and presses it. Tries to make his smile look more like it doesn’t hurt. - T’inquiète pas. Je vais dormir plus ce soir, d’ac? Make light of it. Make them believe you. Merci, camarade.  
  
\- Je le ramène chez moi. Grantaire, on his feet, his fingers leave the smooth neck of his bottle of cheap house red. As if challenged: C’est moi qui habite le plus près d’ici. Enjolras, si tu veux. Tu peux te reposer un peu avant de rentrer.  
  
Enjolras looks looks at him and knows he knows. His eyes are dark and focused. He’s the only one. He’s the only one who can.  
  
\- D’accord.  
  
Beside him Grantaire is steady and Enjolras tries not to despise him for it.  
  
\- Tu prends trop, he tells him, lightly. The rattle of his keys in the door feels too loud, like it’s inside Enjolras’ skull. He closes his eyes. Je t’ai dit, faut être prudent. Tu pourrais te tuer.  
  
\- J’vais pas mourir, Grantaire.  
  
\- T’est pas immortel non plus.  
  
Grantaire’s home is small and crowded, on a better day cosy. Enjolras barely sees it. He brings him a glass of water to wash the taste of blood from the back of his throat, watches him closely as he drinks. His hand on Enjolras’ brow is just as cool.

\- Pourquoi tu fais tout ça pour moi? Tu t’en fous, non? Toi?  
  
\- Ah, mon ange. He smiles. Tu me connais pas du tout.  
  
\- Ça veut dire quoi, ça?  
  
His hand on Enjolras’ brow. Two fingers comb back his curls. He’s close, suddenly. He smells like Merlot, stale cigarette smoke. Within him Enjolras can feel his heart still going too fast. Perhaps Grantaire was right. Laughable, that. But perhaps he is going to die.  
  
\- Mon ange. T’avais tort. Je crois à toi.  
  
Grantaire is kissing him. His pale mouth, his hollow cheek. Enjolras closes his eyes, lets it happen. Grantaire’s lips are soft.  
  
\- Je t’aime, tu sais.  
  
\- Je te crois pas.  
  
Grantaire laughs, and that’s soft too.  
  
\- Ça marche. Tiens, Enjolras, dors ici pendant un moment. Tu peux continuer le matin. Le monde attendra.

The morning comes, the world gets worse. France is in flames.

Shots drum on the cobblestones, rattle the windows, rattle their teeth.

\- Attendez. Attendez…  
  
Enjolras squeezes the trigger of a gun and knows in that moment that it is the last thing he’ll ever do. There’s no living after that for either of them.  
  
One by one his friends look to him wide-eyed and then unseeing. He can’t throw himself before them fast enough. He tries. He tries. Let me die for them. Let me die in someone’s place. Anyone’s.  
  
The dam breaks. He hasn’t felt anything so strong as this in weeks. Months. Longer. Grief that surges in his blood, catches on the embers in his chest and makes them spark, light up into flames that lick through him, there it is, there’s the fire, and it hurts. But let it blaze. He won’t have to carry it much longer.  
  
Upstairs, Grantaire is waiting for him. He rises from his corner. As always, the last.

\- Tu trembles.  
  
Enjolras can feel it. He feels everything, every breath, every beat of his heart. 

\- Il ne reste que nous?  
  
\- Nous seuls. Grantaire holds out his hand. It is steady. Permets-tu?

Enjolras puts his own into it. He smiles. He feels himself thrown backwards. Glass shatters beneath him. Blood runs into his eyes.

He wakes up on the floor of his apartment. It’s summer, dark and hot. Outside a streetlamp buzzes.


	2. english dialogue

Drip still burning at the back of his throat, Enjolras takes his place at the head of the room. Casts an eye over his comrades assembled. Grantaire in his corner sits head bowed, subdued more than usual, maybe still feeling shamed; Enjolras turfed him out last time for being too far gone, disruptive. Hypocrisy at its finest, since he can’t get through a meeting sober either, lately, but with twenty two hours behind him and another eight at least to get through what else is he supposed to do — there isn’t time to stop yet. He’ll make up for it, later, he’s set aside a few hours to crash and sleep just — not yet. There’s this evening’s meeting, first, and the rest of an assignment that needs turning in by midnight if he wants to pass this unit — and he does, needs to. Can’t let his degree fall to the wayside just because he’s trying to save the world.

The social and political mobility the qualification will afford him will be invaluable.

He looks down at the agenda gripped a little too tight in both hands. The words blur with his tremors — the most irritating side effect.

\- Attention…

His voice doesn’t pass above whisper. From the corner Grantaire raises his head, slowly. Nobody else has heard him. For crying out loud, get a grip. Enjolras clears his throat. The room quiets. He puts together a smile. This time, his voice rings strong.

\- Attention, everyone, please, we’ll get started.

On his way out Grantaire’s thin hand catches his wrist as he passes.

\- Be careful with that stuff, he murmurs too close to Enjolras’ ear. His voice feels too loud, surely someone else must hear. Nobody is looking. His fingers brush the collar of Enjolras’ shirt; it’s too close, he wants to pull away. He must be imagining the flecks of white that come away on Grantaire’s thumb. Lack of sleep plays tricks on the eye like that.

\- Enjolras, you coming?

\- Yeah. He pulls his wrist away. Grantaire doesn’t resist. His grip was already slack.

Waking from a coma-like-sleep to an alarm at half six, his skull feels like it’s closing in on his brain. A tutorial this morning and then that panel on radical socialism, plenty of time to redraft the _Activism and Wellbeing_ pamphlet in between, too much of the recommended reading is outdated by now. He realises the sachet of amphetamine is in his hands without intending for it to be there. Puts it away again, back of the drawer. No need this morning. Take a breath. Grantaire’s smoker’s rasp in his ear. Be easy.

Enjolras reads the headlines on the métro and adds another brick to the dam that keeps back despair from flooding his chest. Each day the water rises a little more and he must build it a little higher.

Feuilly smacks a broadsheet down on the table; anger rolls off him like heat.

\- Look. Can you fucking believe this?

A disaster in a faraway corner of the world, people suffering unheard of and alone. Outrage from the others. From him too, only it comes slower than usual. Plans fall into place for a fundraiser, an awareness campaign. He hears his own voice from the back seat inside his head. Searches for that same fire he felt from Feuilly within himself. It must be there somewhere. He knows it hasn’t gone out. Needs a little kindling, that’s all.

Bad people win more power. Mourning weighs heavy in the close walls of the Musain. The meeting drags. He can tell that no one believes his smiles, attempts at encouragement. It’s important not to lose faith. It’s important not to let morale get low. We must look forward. A setback, that’s all. These things happen. Mustn’t let the bastards grind you down. That’s how they get you.

Grantaire is beside him on the walk home. When he appeared Enjolras can’t be sure. He doesn’t ask.

\- But you can’t really believe we’ll win. Not really.

His voice grinds out like grit between his teeth.

\- I do. I hope we will.

\- Really? Because I can’t.

There’s the spark. Anger, though not when he wants it, not when he needs it more, but he’ll hold on anyway.

\- Why do you come, then? Why are you here? Just to piss me off? You don’t believe in anything!

Grantaire looks at him for a long time before he turns and walks away.

Exams come and go; summer now, there are marches to organise, rallies. They never seem to end and yet nothing seems to change — or something does, but some other horror rears its head in its place. There are splinters in his fingers from hoisting protest signs. Mud darkens the edges of the Tricolore pinned to his wall. Sweat sticks his curls to his throat. Enjolras falls asleep on the métro but never misses his stop.

Les Amis occupy a government building in defiance of a proposed bill that can’t be allowed to pass — Enjolras knows the reasons why whenever he’s explaining them to someone else but they seem to leave his head whenever he isn’t. Grantaire takes a hip flask from inside his jacket and swigs from it blithely as he listens on the fringes of a conversation between Marius and Combeferre. Enjolras opens his mouth to tell him this isn’t the place, but there’s still a hint of acridity under his tongue. He stays quiet.

A few weeks later they watch the news in Courfeyrac’s apartment, sharing soup and bread.

\- The far right, murmurs Prouvaire, That phrase has gotten too familiar. I never thought we’d see the day where it wasn’t taboo anymore.

The world get worse. The days begin to blur.

He takes his place at the head of the room. He speaks; he defends; he argues. He turns in essays but can’t remember which subjects he’s taking. He speaks but can’t recall, by the next breath, what he said. The world gets worse. They buy burner phones, just in case. Caught up in a protest that became a riot he takes a blow to the back of the head and doesn’t feel it till he wakes up on the floor of his apartment.

At meetings Grantaire pipes up now and then from the table in the corner and Enjolras can tell he’s trying to press his buttons, get a rise out of him but he barely hears it. There are more important things to worry about now than a wine-stained cynic with nowhere else to be. He hasn’t the time to waste. When holes wear through the dam in his chest he stoppers them with his fingers.

He takes his place at the top of the room. Are the walls closing in or is that just his head. Something dark lands loudly on the back of his hand.

\- Enjolras, you’re bleeding.

\- It doesn’t matter.

The words melt through the page. His hands are soaked in ink. Ink? Something dark, anyway. His name again, loud, afraid.

The ground rushes up to meet him. A pair of arms interrupt; pressure on his face, a chair beneath him. Joly’s bright, anxious eyes appear.

\- What’s the matter? What’s wrong?

\- Nothing, I’m alright. His own voice sounds like someone else’s. Bit of a headache, that’s all. His mouth stretches into a smile. Thank you, Joly, but don’t worry, I— I need some water. That’s all.

Even to himself he sounds like a liar. Everyone must see it. So he’s a liar now?

Joly wants him to go to A&E he resists, takes his hand and presses it. Tries to make his smile look more like it doesn’t hurt. - Stop worrying. I’ll get some more sleep tonight, okay? Make light of it. Make them believe you. Thank you, comrade.  
  
\- I’ll take him to mine. Grantaire, on his feet, his fingers leave the smooth neck of his bottle of cheap house red. As if challenged: I live the closest. Enjolras, if you want. You can rest a bit before going home.

Enjolras looks looks at him and knows he knows. His eyes are dark and focused. He’s the only one. He’s the only one who can.

\- Alright.

Beside him Grantaire is steady and Enjolras tries not to despise him for it.

\- You’re using too much, he tells him, lightly. The rattle of his keys in the door feels too loud, like it’s inside Enjolras’ skull. He closes his eyes. I told you, you have to be careful. You could kill yourself.

\- I’m not going to die, Grantaire.

\- You’re not immortal, either.

Grantaire’s home is small and crowded, on a better day cosy. Enjolras barely sees it. He brings him a glass of water to wash the taste of blood from the back of his throat, watches him closely as he drinks. His hand on Enjolras’ brow is just as cool.

\- Why are you doing this for me? It’s not as if you care.

\- Oh, my angel. He smiles. You really don’t know me at all.

\- What’s that supposed to mean?

His hand on Enjolras’ brow. Two fingers comb back his curls. He’s close, suddenly. He smells like Merlot, stale cigarette smoke. Within him Enjolras can feel his heart still going too fast. Perhaps Grantaire was right. Laughable, that. But perhaps he is going to die.

\- My angel. You were wrong. I believe in you.

Grantaire is kissing him. His pale mouth, his hollow cheek. Enjolras closes his eyes, lets it happen. Grantaire’s lips are soft.

\- I love you, you know.

\- I don’t believe you.

Grantaire laughs, and that’s soft too.

\- Of course you don’t. Look, Enjolras, sleep here for a while. You can soldier on in the morning. The world will wait.

The morning comes, the world gets worse. France is in flames.

Shots drum on the cobblestones, rattle the windows, rattle their teeth.

\- Hold. Hold…

Enjolras squeezes the trigger of a gun and knows in that moment that it is the last thing he’ll ever do. There’s no living after that for either of them.

One by one his friends look to him wide-eyed and then unseeing. He can’t throw himself before them fast enough. He tries. He tries. Let me die for them. Let me die in someone’s place. Anyone’s.

The dam breaks. He hasn’t felt anything so strong as this in weeks. Months. Longer. Grief that surges in his blood, catches on the embers in his chest and makes them spark, light up into flames that lick through him, there it is, there’s the fire, and it hurts. But let it blaze. He won’t have to carry it much longer.

Upstairs, Grantaire is waiting for him. He rises from his corner. As always, the last.

\- You’re shaking.

Enjolras can feel it. He feels everything, every breath, every beat of his heart.

\- It’s just us left?

\- Just us. Grantaire holds out his hand. It is steady. May I?

Enjolras puts his own into it. He smiles. He feels himself thrown backwards. Glass shatters beneath him. Blood runs into his eyes.

He wakes up on the floor of his apartment. It’s summer, dark and hot. Outside a streetlamp buzzes.

**Author's Note:**

> this was slightly experimental so comments hugely appreciated :--)


End file.
